


Time Out

by Alter-cation (Alter_cation)



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluffy Smut, Gender-neutral Reader, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Insert, Watching, this is my magnum opus: the thirstiest thing I have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23886178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter_cation/pseuds/Alter-cation
Summary: Reeve works way too hard. It's up to you to get him to relax, just for a night.
Relationships: Reeve Tuesti/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	Time Out

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I don't even go here. Please accept the humble and extremely self-indulgent product of my boundless thirst for this man. I pray I am not alone in this thirst, which is so deep I sat here on a Monday night mainlining nigorizake until it was finished. 
> 
> And my deepest apologies to my dear friend Coruscas for using the lovingly tailored fic she delivered straight to my e-mail inbox as a launching point, basically rewriting-- very badly-- everything she sent me, which is up until the pants come off. Please forgive me.

Reeve usually came home from work far later than you liked, but lately it was worse than ever. Instead of eight or nine, it wasn’t uncommon for your lover to come through the door after eleven or later. Tonight is one of those nights; the sound of the front door shutting startles you out of your light slumber. The book you’d taken to bed for company still rests on your chest. Reeve’s footsteps down the hall are slow and heavy, weary; it makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably to know he is working himself to the bone.

But he doesn’t join you in the bedroom, as he usually does. Instead, the sound of his footsteps vanishes, and by the time you sit up in bed, book stowed on the nightstand, you hear the creak of the leather couch in the living room. You slip on your robe and tiptoe out of the bedroom to confront him.

He sits in the dark, back to you, lit by the wash of light pollution spilling in through the grandiose picture windows. The great spokes of the city spread out for miles beneath the penthouse, glittering like they’ve been studded with gems. Up here, high above the city, the light seeps hazy and blue across the carpet. Reeve’s legs are stretched out before him, his head resting against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. It almost seems a shame to disturb him, but he’ll wake up in the morning with a terrible backache if you don’t intervene.

“Reeve.”

He draws a sharp breath through his nose and lifts his head. “Darling. I woke you up. I’m sorry.” He scoots a little more upright and beckons you closer with a wave of his arm. Despite his exhaustion, the smile he offers you is so genuine, straight from his heart and full of adoration.

You draw close, your silken housecoat sighing in the still room as he drags a hand up the outside of your thigh, beckoning you to sit in his lap. You perch, your knees on either side of his hips, and cradle his jaw between your palms to kiss him. His beard scratches at your lip and your chin in a familiar way that makes the first licks of anticipation curl low in your belly.

“Why didn’t you come to bed?” you ask, brushing a thumb along the blade of his cheekbone. The dark circles under his eyes are so deep they more closely resemble bruises. In the hazy light pouring into the room from the city beyond, he looks gaunt and drawn, and you feel a deep pang of guilt that you don’t know if he’s eating properly during his long days and late nights at Shinra. You place an apologetic kiss on the tip of his chin.

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

You kiss him again, winding your arms around his neck. His broad, firm hands slide from your thighs to your hips, warm even through your robe.

“Don’t ever worry about waking me up. I wait up for you.” You can see the tension between his brows ease, a sweet downturn at the outer corners of his eyes; he’s touched. He raises a hand to your cheek, and you turn your head to kiss his fingers and his palm. “I like to make sure you’re getting sleep.”

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve hardly been at home lately. It’s just for a little while longer.”

You press his palm to your chest, over your heart, and rest both your hands over his. “I know. You don’t need to explain it to me— I get it. I just… worry about you. You barely sleep, you never rest.”

He shifts his free hand to your jaw and draws you close for another sweet, light, bone-tired kiss. “I know, my love. I don’t mean to make you worry over me. I just have so much to do—”

“You’re a good man, Reeve Tuesti,” you tell him, drawing his hand back to your lips so you can kiss his palm again. “Too good, sometimes. But you deserve a  _ fucking _ break. You’re not a machine.”

He smiles, thoroughly chastised but endeared. “You’re right.”

“I know I am. Just… come to bed.” You slide your fingers into his hair, drawing him forward, your other hand working loose the immaculate knot of his expensive tie. “I miss you.” His lips are warm and soft against yours, and he yields so sweetly to your kiss, opening his mouth for you at the slightest invitation. His breathing quickens, his hands finding the opening of your robe so he can slide his palms along your bare outer thighs. When you draw back to breathe, he drops his gaze, his eyes tracing along your chest but lacking the habitual enthusiasm. You realize, a moment too late, that he’s sheepish, a little ashamed.

“I’m sorry, darling. I think I’m too tired for this. As much as I’d love to.”

You bow forward and kiss his cheekbone, the point just before his ear, and lightly nip his earlobe just as you know he loves. “Don’t apologize.” Your hands travel down his chest, undoing the buttons of his suit jacket and rucking it off his shoulders. Your kisses travel over his scruffy jaw, down his neck— you are briefly gratified by the catch in his breath when you tease his throat with a flick of your tongue— and further down his clothed chest. You slide to the floor before him, hands perched on his knees. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

You can see his Adam’s apple work as he swallows, measuring his desire against his exhaustion. Finally, he gives an affirmative little hum in his throat. His eyes follow the movements of your hands intently as you guide his knees apart so you can settle between them. His front teeth worry his bottom lip when your hands tease his inner thighs. His belt buckle falls away readily beneath your nimble fingers. The way you slide your fingers along his cock through his pants has him exhale a sharp little breath, need darkening his gaze like a storm crossing the sky. His fingertips skim your cheek as he meets your eyes, desire burning bright in them. His hair, loosened from its style by your roving fingers earlier, falls messy across his forehead. He’s absolutely beautiful, and entirely at your mercy.

“Just relax,” you instruct, clever fingers freeing him directly into your palm, earning you a hum from the back of his throat. He’s not all the way there yet, but you’re certain you can fix that. “Let go of all your stress. I want you to sleep well tonight.” His fingers slide into your hair, loosely, and you lean into his touch.

He’s already thick and warm in your palm, and a kiss to his head does nothing but help. You’ve always considered Reeve’s cock to be especially attractive, insofar as such things can be so— not too big, but not small by any measure. Just right. Not long enough to hurt you when he gets really going, and satisfyingly thick. It bears a few prodigious veins running down the shaft that are just tantalizing to trace your tongue along and stud with kisses. Overall, just another perfect part of this man you love so ferociously.

And that deep, helpless moan when you finally take the head into your mouth and hollow out your cheeks only makes that love burn a little brighter.

Reeve generally isn’t very loud— a fact that you found to be a great shame, because his voice is positively sinful when it’s gone raw and deep and completely unfiltered. It usually takes a lot to get him out of his own head enough to be vocal for you, so the fact he was already there was a great benefit. You reward him with a moan of your own, drawing back before taking him further into your mouth, and he huffs a strained sigh, his hand tightening reflexively in your hair for a moment before he relaxes. He’s trying so hard even now to be good to you, but you couldn’t care less if he pulls a little.

You drag your tongue all the way along the underside of his shaft as you draw back, and flick the tip against his.

“Let me hear you, Reeve.”

He sighs your name as you draw him slowly back into your mouth. The sound of your own name said so delicately has heat slithering along your nerves. You continue the same leisurely pace, stroking the root that you can’t manage comfortably with your free hand. Reeve’s head falls back against the cushions, his eyes closed, the wrinkle between his brows prominent as his expression tightens with little fleeting strains of pleasure. He looks like sin as he further loosens his own tie, clawing his collar open, his hair sweat-stuck to his forehead. You have to steady his hip as he loses himself in the movement of your mouth and your other hand on him, try as he might not to guide you with the hand in your hair. His breath comes hard and ragged, little sighs chasing his exhalations as you drive him onward.

“You feel so good,” he gasps, dragging his free hand to the arm of the couch to grip it with white knuckles. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he reiterates.

Your answering moan is entirely involuntary. It’s now a mission to get Reeve to run his mouth, because the resulting arousal is heady and powerful, like a shock of lightning across your nerves. His hand contracts in your hair, urging you just gently to get a little closer, take him just a little deeper. His choked-off groan spurs you on to tease him with your tongue as best as you can without breaking your rhythm. His strained cry sounds like it was supposed to be your name.

“Don’t stop,” he moans. “Please.”

He lifts his head to look at you, his pupils so blown his irises are but a sliver of hazel. He’s so very close; it’s bare on his face. The sight of him made an utter mess— his suit creased and half-removed, his dark hair mussed, his muscles tense and fighting to hang on just a little longer— is something you’ll cherish for years to come. To know you’re the only one to see him like this, the only one he’ll let himself fall apart for, it’s intoxicating.

His eyes are intent on yours as you continue, speeding up, watching him draw a shaky breath and bite his lip, only to open his mouth again to gasp as you swirl your tongue and hollow your cheeks just so. His voice breaks on a moan, and then he can’t tell you enough, babbling helplessly. He tells you he loves you, how good you are to him, how close he is, repeats your name like a prayer— 

He breaks eye contact to squeeze them closed as his climax breaks over him. His low, ragged, strained moan is the sweetest sound, though difficult to appreciate properly when you’re trying not to make a mess. You work him through it until he slumps back onto the couch, panting for breath, his arm tossed over his eyes. His white shirt sticks to his sweaty chest, though that’s hardly a deterrent for you to run your hands up it as you return to his lap. You kiss the edge of his neatly trimmed beard, and he removes his arm so he can smile up at you.

“Better?” you ask, settling your hand on his chest and your head on his shoulder.

“Mm,” he sighs, and you can tell he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and drift right off. But Reeve Tuesti is a very good man. “Now what about you?”

“I can take care of myself,” you assure him. While it’s true, he must be able to see it in your face, how you’re half-mad with arousal, how you’d love nothing more than for him to reciprocate in kind— even the thought of his beard scraping against your inner thigh in a way with which you’re intimately familiar tests your self-control— but this isn’t about you. “You’re sweet to offer, but you need to sleep. Go on to bed. I’ll be there soon.”

He studies you for a long moment, something unreadable on his face. The corner of his lips lift in a fond shadow of a smile. “You’re— you’re just going to…?”

You kiss his cheek and slide off his lap, kneeling on the cushion beside him. “Take care of myself, yes. I’ll sleep better if I’m not so wound up.” You straighten up, intent on taking this to the shower. “Go to bed, Reeve.”

He catches your wrist, his eyes wide and intent. For a moment, he can’t seem to verbalize what’s on his mind, just studies you. When he does speak, his tone is bordering on uncertain. “Let me watch.”

It’s enough to weaken your knees, and at least your brief look of utter shock seems to amuse him. “You want to watch— as I get myself off. It’s not—” You press your lips together into a line, unable to hold his gaze; it’s your turn to be uncertain. “ _ Quick. _ It’ll be quick. It’s not going to be much to— to  _ watch.” _

Uncharted territory. You’d had him in bed more times and more ways than you cared to count, but this somehow felt different, strangely taboo. It wasn’t the sort of thing you usually performed for someone else. There are so many things to consider— that Reeve would be watching you in your basest moment, of expectations you might not live up to, of how it might impact how efficiently you could just deal with this already so you could finally go to bed, pressure to perform for him instead of just getting off for yourself—

His broad hands find your hips and drag you closer, til your weak knees deposit you straight into his lap again. He nips at your jaw, somehow still finding the energy to tease you. Reeve had an uncanny ability to summon energy to rally to whatever task lay before him; that seemed to be his special skill. “Shy?” he purrs against your ear, and you hate that his hands, now resting on your upper arms, can probably feel your goosebumps through the thin silk of your robe. “I want to see you pleasure yourself. The least I can do is offer moral support.”

You snare the back of his neck with your hand and pull him into a fierce kiss, and if he can taste himself on your tongue, he doesn’t seem put off. “Watching,” you insist, pinching his earlobe between your teeth. “No helping. And it’s going to be quick. You should be in bed already.” And you kiss him again, to distract both himself and yourself as you slip your hand between your bodies and trail your fingers to where you need them most.

It’s not a secret you can keep for long; you’re helpless against the rough sigh of relief that interrupts your kiss. You lean your forehead against Reeve’s, trying to pretend you don’t hear his soft chuckle, don’t feel the way he shifts you just a little, probably trying to get a better view. It’s just you and your fantasy, something tried-and-true for efficiency. Your eyes slip closed, and frankly you can’t bring yourself to care if Reeve can’t see precisely what you’re doing— it’s just you, chasing after your own pleasure in your fantasy.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he says, his voice a low rasp. He’s trying not to intrude too much, you realize. He steadies your hips with his hands as gently as he can manage, but apparently can’t help himself from sneaking a couple light kisses against your neck.

And… well. What harm is there in telling him, since you’re already down this rabbit hole? Would it really be so bad, to tell your lover your somewhat mundane little fantasy about the two of you?

“Mm— we’re in your office,” you tell him, and it’s no lie. Perhaps one of your most heavily-worn fantasies involves Reeve and his own workplace. If he’s flattered he features in the scene you’ve chosen, he doesn’t let on. “We’ve just finished a late lunch. It’s about time I should leave and let you get back to work, but there’s still the matter of  _ dessert. _ ” You breathe a rough sigh. He strokes your thigh with his thumb, and while it intrudes on your mental picture, it’s not entirely unwelcome. “I showed up late in the lunch hour, knew it didn’t really matter because you wouldn’t have stopped working to take lunch before then anyway. We take our time over lunch. And it’s now getting back to  _ company time,  _ but what a way to stick it to Shinra—” you bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath between your teeth, then lower your breath to a growl, “-- to fuck you in your own office on Rufus’s dollar.”

“That’s a little petty,” he says, lightly, though there’s a rough undercurrent to his voice that says he’s following your dialogue very closely. He’s warm beneath your hand where you steady yourself, and you can feel him breathing a little harder beneath you. You could do without his commentary, but it’s gratifying to you that he’s engaged in the process, at least.

“I don’t care. It’s— the thrill of it, too. That you and I could be caught at any time.” Your thoughts and the movements of your own hand have you rocking your hips against the brace of Reeve’s grip, a little whine slipping from your throat at his resistance. “Your assistant could come in with some— urgent message, or a call, or— you know how she just likes to check on you sometimes. Or— someone higher up. I imagine Rufus would have some choice words.”

Reeve chuckles a little, beard scratching against your neck as he kisses your throat. “Is he meant to join in, in this fantasy?”

“Fuck off. No. Just you, throwing me onto your desk.” Your pulse quickens, and you pick up your pace. “Having me right there. Quick and rough. Trying not to let the desk rattle and blow our cover.”

“I have a very solid desk,” he assures you. His voice has gone deep and sweetly husky. You’re sure there’s no way, in his exhausted state, he could rally  _ that  _ much, but he’s enjoying himself nonetheless.

“Good,” you sigh. “Just— hard and fast and desperate. Needy. Have to keep myself quiet. Moan into your shoulder—  _ Reeve— _ ” You bow forward, burying your face against his shoulder just as you imagine. Your spine is taut as a bowstring, thighs quaking on either side of his. So  _ close. _ Reeve’s hands are tight on your hips, helping you through your motion as you rock against your own hand. “Oh, god,  _ Reeve, _ I’m—”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice threadbare. You can’t imagine the look in his face at the moment, but he sounds enraptured, nearly as desperate for this as you. “That’s it.”

And it is— his encouragement, his voice egging you on to your peak is all it takes. You stutter his name one last time and tilt your head back on a strained keening cry that Reeve answers with his own rough moan.

It takes a moment to collect yourself from where you’ve sagged into his chest. He’s stroking your back lightly, brushing a gentle kiss against your cheekbone. You sit back and take stock. Reeve meets your gaze, his eyes half-lidded with sleep but still expressive, his fondness shining through. He’s still a mess, but he looks satisfied. And at least, you think, he’ll likely hold tight to this particular memory for quite some time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and you decide such a comment merits another short kiss before you pull yourself up from his lap.

“Time for bed,” you insist, offering him a hand up. He takes it, and the two of you shuffle in your dishevelment to the bedroom in the dark. Once you’re both changed into something clean and ready for bed, Reeve presses close. He’s not usually one to cuddle when it comes time to actually sleep, given he has to be up so much earlier than you and how much better he sleeps when he’s in his own space. But he draws you into his firm chest, one hand splayed flat against the centre of your back. You think maybe he might have something further to say, but sleep takes him the moment he’s settled. You sigh and settle into his chest, content at least that he will sleep a while.

You may try to convince him to stay home tomorrow, or at least take the morning off to rest. To see him so drained does make you worry for him. It’s not healthy for him to push so hard all the time. But Reeve is stubborn among many more redeeming qualities, and you know your chances are slim.

If he refuses, though, you suppose there’s always the option of lunch.


End file.
